


These Ties That Bind Us

by silentstephi



Series: These Ties That Bind Us [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-04-15
Updated: 2011-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:59:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentstephi/pseuds/silentstephi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dragon Age 2 Spoilers: Four months since the events at Kirkwall and the world is changing at a rapid rate. Sebastian Vael, last of his line, is determined to get Starkhaven back but Sorcha Hawke isn't going to make it easy. The abomination haunts them still.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spectres

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Many thanks to la_libertine for the beta on this chapter. This is probably a slow starter, so hope y'all don't mind the set up. Starting out with a T rating but it will eventually get to M for themes and violence.  
> As per usual the standard disclaimer: I don't own anything Bioware has created. This is purely a fan work. Bioware owns all (even my soul.)

The candle on the desk flickered as Sebastian, last of the royal Vael family, sat and thought of how to phrase his next missive.  His grandfather’s bow was resting causally next to the fire place, just within reach in case unwanted company were to burst through the door.

The Resari family was an old friend to the Vaels and the head of their line, Shelia Resari, was more than happy to lend him their spring home while Sebastian made his bid to reclaim a throne that was rightfully his. 

The reclamation was slow going though.  With the Circles rebelling all over Thedas the Chantry was in disarray, and the people of Starkhaven with their crumbling Circle and Templar order were starting to fear the coming change.

 _A change that she could have prevented._ He looked out the elaborately curtained window, but the sky was clouded, dark and grey.  The letter on his desk, half written and meant for Aveline, Captain of the Guard in Kirkwall, waited for him.  The night, with its restless spectres of the past coming to remind him what he was fighting for, kept him from finishing. 

His face flushed with the memory of searing heat and ashes falling like gritty snowflakes at the site of the former Chantry.  Elthina had stayed to tend her flock and just like that, she and everyone inside were gone.  Sharp gravel had dug into his knees as they gave out, grief overcoming him.  _Why hadn’t she listened!_   A good woman dead and all because of one mage.

His fingers twitched as his memory played out the scene.  He had watched the Champion of Kirkwall approach the murdering son of bitch, dagger drawn.  He had sat on the crate, awaiting her judgment.  That damn mage… Sebastian knew he was trouble from the start. 

Sebastian expected her to be quick, merciful even.  He knew Hawke; she was a compassionate woman, sometimes to a fault when it came to the subject of mages.  He had felt at first satisfied and then surprised that instead of a quick slice to Anders’ throat, her hand instead lashed out and grabbed at the hair on the back of the abomination’s head while her other hand had sliced down and shorn the knot of hair from his skull .

Sebastian had barely made out her hissed words, but the last, “ _Run,_ ” was all he needed to hear.

He closed his eyes but he could still see her green eyes as they held Sebastian’s as he protested her letting the murderer live.  He yelled at her, swore to her that he would bring all the armies of Starkhaven to bear against her to kill that man.  And yet, she let him live.  The stab of betrayal made his chest ache.

There was a scratch at the door which lifted him from the fog of memory and he cleared his throat, “Enter.”

A tall, broad shouldered figure entered.  Roan Ternris, Captain of the Bear Snatchers, was a beast of a man.  One would never have guessed the thick fingered Antivan could kill you in your sleep.  The man was practically a ghost during the day and a shadow by night.  He kept Sebastian appraised of important information regarding Starkhaven while Sebastian  moved what support he had gathered from hamlet to hamlet.  It had made them harder to track down, for which Sebastian was grateful.  He did not have the numbers or support to take back what was his by right. 

Following behind Roan was a shorter woman with braided blonde hair and dusky skin that reminded him of Isabela.  Light blue eyes sparkled at Sebastian as Noël, second in command of the rest of the rabble he had hired, closed the door behind her and Roan.  She was easy on the eyes and had an accent he couldn’t quite place, but she was good at her job, and had a knack for rooting out excellent deals with local merchants when it came time to resupply.  Paying for this small army was an art in and of itself but luckily his noble birthright was holding out.  The luck wouldn’t last.  They needed to make their move soon.

The fact that both were here to report meant things were about to get interesting.

Sebastian looked directly at Roan, “You have a report for me I take it?”

Roan nodded once and walked over to the fireplace to put his rough hands out to get some warmth on this chilly night.  Both Noël and Roan looked like they’d been out in the rain; their clothing dripped small puddles while Noël’s braids looked plastered to her neck. 

“It was as you thought,” Roan said, “four more mercenary companies have hired on, but it will take the Shirvahs at least a week before they can get here.  The Brass Company, Reinde’s Romp and Sidhe Devils will be here in three days time.”  He didn’t look over his shoulder at Sebastian as Noël piped in.  Her lyrical voice was a soothing counterpoint to Roan’s rough accented Antivan.  “Goran’s allies in the city are polarized.  He’s been making poor decisions, and the farmers have suffered the most because of it.  With the unrest in the Chantry and former Circle mages still running rampant in the city and outside it, he is losing noble and merchant favor.  Guard Captain Leras is ever faithful, but there are some in the ranks who doubt he can keep it together.  There have been more abomination attacks and with the news coming in from Orlais, more Templars seem to be defecting by the day.  Kirkwall’s madness looks to be infectious.”  She eyed him steadily, her gaze intent on Sebastian’s reaction to the news.  Sebastian had always found this habit of hers an interesting quirk.  When the woman focused on a person, you were either knew or were dead.

Sebastian nodded and the three discussed plans to meet up with the newest recruits.  Roan had been a very good gauge of character and he was happy with the skill of these new groups.  Sebastian had known the man for almost four years now, and after fighting by his side he was confident in the Antivan’s judgment.

After he dismissed them, Sebastian looked at the water clock.  It was a little past midnight.  His feet were feeling restless and his soul was tattered, especially after the unpleasant visit down memory lane. _Maker, Starkhaven’s problems wouldn’t be so complicated if she had just stuck with the Templars._ He shook his head and grabbed his bow and cloak.  He needed to clear his head.  He needed to pray in the Maker's house.




The Chantry of Starkhaven was far across the city and too dangerous to walk to on such a cold night, but there was a small chapel nearby that he had become a regular sight at during the late nights.  He always found that a few moments in prayer in the Maker’s house helped ease his thoughts.  Lately they had been mired in doubt and rage.  Grief over the loss of his mentor.  Resentment that her murderer still walked among the living and righteous, an abomination in every sense of the term.  Anger at Sorcha and feelings of betrayal.  He thought he knew her.  But she had thrown in her lot with the mages, even after what that monster had done.  _How could she?_

He slipped inside the unlocked door to the chapel and lifted his hood to nod at Sister Cynthia.  Her hair was bound in a simple bun and the shocking white of it caused a halo effect around her face as she graced him with a shallow smile at seeing Sebastian.  “Your Highness.  Another late night?”

He winced inwardly at the title, but he forced a smile at the priestess and nodded.  “Yes, Sister.  I won’t be long, unless you have need of me?” 

She shook her head, their ritual greeting complete, “Thank you, but we are fine.  May the Maker watch over you this night, Your Highness.”  He watched her retreating figure disappear into the chapel and his shoulders relaxed a fraction of an inch.  He wasn’t sure why, but the woman’s smile never seemed to reach her frosty grey eyes.  He had never known her when he was young, having only met her recently, but he suspected that she was unhappy about his vows to the Brotherhood and how he had not renewed them.  Sister Cynthia struck him as the conservative type.

But that was a worry for another time.  Right now, he needed to clear his mind, refresh his thoughts, renew his purpose within himself as well with the rest of the world.

Kneeling at one of the pews was another cloaked figure, dripping from the persistent rain outside.  He couldn’t tell exactly, but he suspected they had fallen asleep.  Soft snores were coming from that direction, and Sebastian smiled.  At least someone had found a bit of peace.

He began his prayer when a clicking of claws distracted him.  They echoed solidly, and he lifted his head up in time to get a face full of wet dog.  Steading himself before he fell out of the pew, he looked down at the dog that had barreled its way into the praying princeling.  The dog, a mabari, whined at him, and slowly recognition hit Sebastian. 

“Fergus?  What are you doing here?”  The dog whined louder and licked Sebastian’s face.  He could see the war paint on the dog’s fur, though it looked washed out.  He could barely make out the Amell crest on the dog’s back before Fergus butted his head against Sebastian’s chest.

Mabari were loyal beasts, intelligent and more than just simple war dogs to their owners.  If Fergus was here…

Sebastian’s hands froze and his heart leapt to his mouth.  Sorcha had to be here.  Mabari loyalty was legendary and his memory took hold of him again.

 _Sorcha sat across from him at the Hanged Man.  She was on her third round and was regaling him with stories of the famous war hounds, the mabari, from her childhood.  Her laughter was genuine, carefree even, and her green eyes were focused on his every question.  Her hand strayed across his during the night and it sent his pulse racing…_

Fergus tugged at his armor, which snapped Sebastian back to the present.  The chill night, the sight of her mabari.  He stood up from the pew abruptly, which startled Fergus into backing up.  The hound was instantly alert to the archer’s movements, but Sebastian didn’t look down, but instead to the sleeping individual in the pews. 

“Maker’s breath, what are you … doing… here,” the angry whisper died on his lips as he shoved the person’s cloak back and the smell of booze wafted up from the sleeping man.  With a snort, the man woke up and banged his knees into the pew in front of him, causing him to yelp in pain.  Sebastian calmed his face and apologized profusely to the man, backing away slowly. 

He tossed his bow over his shoulder and looked down at Fergus.  “Where is she?”  The hound woofed at him, satisfied that the archer was finally thinking straight, and made his way to the front door.  Putting his hood back over his head, Sebastian slipped out into the night.  The rain had picked up in pace, and a numb, cold hard feeling was starting to sink into his stomach.

The Champion of Kirkwall was a wanted fugitive.  Sorcha was a smart woman.  Considering his final words to her, he did not think she would come to Starkhaven.  Not after what she had done.  But here was Fergus, leading him out of the city proper and towards the Minanter River. 

It could have been a trap, but something told Sebastian that it wasn’t.  It was irrational, but he hadn’t seen a mabari, let alone this one in particular, since Kirkwall.  He had to know why the hound was here, leading him through the woods to the river bank.

The Prince also knew that he would have help if he needed it.  He had caught a shadowy figure more than once trailing him and by now knew that either Roan or one of his lieutenants was there to watch out for him. 

Fergus’ pace increased the farther they got from the city and the closer to one of the smaller branches of the river that snaked its way inland.  Having grown up in these woods, Sebastian moved through them like a natural woodsman.  The coverage from the rain the forest normally gave was hampered by the lack of foliage of the early spring so both the mabari and Sebastian were soaked through pretty quickly.  But they finally made it to the river’s edge.  Fergus whimpered as he nudged a dark mound, licking at an ungloved hand.

The closer Sebastian got, the faster his own pace increased.  The river bank was empty save a small skiff grounded on the shore and the mass of canvas and armor.

He cautiously stepped towards it, but when the lick of the hound’s tongue on exposed fingers elicited no response, he threw caution to the wind and knelt down beside the half drowned woman.  He moved the canvas from her face, and there she was.  The Champion of Kirkwall, pale skin clammy to the touch, red hair soaked with river water and rain, dirt and blood on her face, marring the tattoo on the side of her face.  She didn’t even moan when he moved her.  She still wore most of her armor and while he couldn’t immediately assess the extent of her injuries, he knew it was bad. 

Her helmet was gone, as was her glove, but her Blade of Mercy lay next to her.  He didn’t have time to think of the irony in that blade.  Fergus whined again and Sebastian brought his head down close enough to her face to hear her ragged breaths.  She lived.  Barely.  


	2. Fugitive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Much thanks again to la_libertine and ReileenaOrion for beta reading this chapter. I really appreciate you guys taking the time to look it over.  
> As per usual, Bioware owns all, this is just a fan work.

“Maker’s Breath, Sorcha, slow down!” 

As she turned to face her sister Sorcha plastered a smile on her face.  “What, didn’t they teach you endurance running while you were with the Wardens?  Does it take a pampered and soft living to slaughter countless monsters in the Deep Roads then?  I’m in the wrong line of work it seems.”  Fergus, the mabari, panted happily next to Sorcha.  He was enjoying the exercise it seemed.

Her raven haired sister just glared at them.  _Maker I missed that stare, reminds me of Mother_ , Sorcha thought, but she’d never tell Bethany that.  They had more pressing concerns at the moment, like running for their lives.  Again. 

Her sister and her dwarven friend, Varric, caught up to the restless warrior.  “I think we can take a five minute break.  There’s a cave up here, we made camp in it a few weeks ago.”  When Bethany said we, she meant her and the Grey Wardens.  Sorcha wondered if that Howe fellow had brought Bethany back to Kirkwall in time for the world to go nuts, but she pushed those thoughts aside when Varric said, “Maker, finally.  I need to take a look at Bianca.  I think I dented her on that crazy coot’s tiara.”

Sorcha shrugged and followed her sister to the cave.  Her feet ached with the forced march she had imposed on them and she was reluctant to admit how grateful she was for a bit of rest. 

Knight Captain Cullen had given her group a decent head start, but they had spent too much time in the city before making their break for the Wounded Coast.

The repetitive motions of setting up camp as well as the silence of her companions gave Sorcha the one thing she really did not want right now; a moment to think.

 _Anders._   His name was a wail of sorrow in her mind.  Bethany and Varric were being very careful to not mention it, but ever since the Chantry Sorcha had been disconnected. Distant.   But she had to be.  _Andraste’s flaming arse, why did he have to do such a stupid thing?_   Her stomach clenched tightly and she closed her eyes.  _What am I going to do?_

A wave of nausea washed over her and she gripped the wall of the cave.  She would not be sick, not here.  Not now.  They would ask too many questions that she couldn’t bloody well answer.

She saw her sister looking at her, a concerned twitch of her pretty brow and her mouth turned to a frown.  Before Bethany could say anything Sorcha turned away and said, “I’m going to get some wood for a fire.  Wouldn’t want to die of the elements after making such a daring escape from Kirkwall, would we?”

Varric snorted, “As if I’d allow something as ridiculous as frostbite to take us out.  Hawke, you should know better.”  He was oiling Bianca down with the care of a skilled crossbowman with a loved weapon, or was that a lover?  Sorcha clucked her teeth at him and said, “Behave you two.  I’ll be back,” and before Bethany was able to get a word in, she disappeared around the corner, Fergus on her heels. 

As fast as her feet would carry her, she sprinted for one of the few paths they had stashed a cache of driftwood when jobs led them out here overnight.  Away from the water it was kept relatively dry.  She wanted, no, she _needed_ distance between them.  The adrenaline high was coming down.  She was already missing the fast pace of running for her life.

Her stomach did another flip flop and she had to slow down.   _Mother…_ Of course she’d think of Mother.  The mabari whined and she put a hand out to him, “It’s alright boy. I’m fine.”  She put a hand on her belly, the move more to comfort her own fears but …  Was she really afraid of losing this?  After what Anders had done, did she really want this burden?

 _The sky above them erupted into whorls of red and black as the spell Anders had wrought blew the Chantry from its foundation and wiped it and everything inside out of existence._

 _She was stunned, speechless and her mind went blank but everyone was looking at her.  Their eyes were angry, Sebastian’s grief stricken voice calling out for Elthina, Meredith and Orsino bickering and Anders… just looking so … so bloody righteous.  Tired._

 _Daft stupid prig of a man, how could you…_   She clenched her fist to her belly.  She couldn’t think about it now.  If she stayed out here too long, Bethany would come looking for her.  She rummaged around for good dry lengths of wood for their fire and she let her mind wander. 

Since it was just the three of them, hiding while on the move would be easier.  Aveline had stayed behind.  She was Captain of the Guard so she couldn’t just leave her men, and Sorcha would not take her from her husband.  Not again.  She loved Aveline like a sister; she couldn’t do that to her.

 _“Good luck Hawke.  And, please, take care of yourself,”_ the woman had said to her before she left Lowtown to help Donnic with some of the citizens.

Merrill… _Andraste’s tits what did that girl do?_   Sorcha had been cutting it close to let the girl stop by her house in the alienage to take care of the mirror with whatever magics she could but… she was gone.  And so was the mirror.  The implications were too much for Sorcha to continue with that line of thought.

Fenris had stayed behind with Aveline.  Sorcha hadn’t minded.  He had been reluctant to help them against the Templars, and his eyes, always judging, especially after that stunt Orsino pulled, seemed to say _I told you so_.  Everywhere mages had lost it and resorted to blood magic.  _Was it the magic that made them all go daft?   We were winning for Maker’s sake!_  

She heaved the pile of dried driftwood into a manageable stack and headed back to camp, where Bethany had finished setting up and Varric was tending the small kindling fire.  Sorcha plopped the pile of dried wood down next to the dwarf and found a seat so she could rest her feet.  She let out a satisfied sigh once her rump touched dirt.  Glancing at Varric, she said, “So, thoughts on where we should go from here?  I figure that anywhere within a good 20 mile radius is a no go.”

“Don’t forget to nix any place that has access to a Chantry.  Oh wait!  I forgot. The Chantry is everywhere.”  Varric’s tone was mocking, but she knew the man; they were all still in a bit of shock.  His mouth tended to run a bit meaner when he was pissy.  “We could always head north and join the Qun, how’s that sound.”

“Maker no, I’ll stick with the Order,” Bethany said with a slight tone of exacerbation.  The old Bethany shone through during times of great stress.  It made Sorcha happy if only for a moment.  “Speaking of the Order, I was supposed to meet Nathanial and Stroud in two weeks time in Tantervale.  We could meet up with him there.” 

Sorcha thought about it, “Do you think the Grey Wardens would want a few fugitives just hanging about?  Or would they start eyeing us for a commission…”  She lifted a brow suspiciously at her sister, which made Bethany laugh.

“Oh that’s all I need.  Champion and a Grey Warden.  No sister,” and her tone sobered, “It’s not something that should be done lightly.  The Grey Wardens have a history with taking the fringes of society and the unwanted or, in some cases, wanted, but no… I won’t put you through it.  One Hawke is enough,” she said firmly and then went quiet.

Sorcha sighed but she agreed with her sister.  She wasn’t too keen on joining the Order, but they were running low on options.  They spent most of the night planning on their next move.  In the end, Sorcha decided Bethany would return to Nathanial in Tantervale alone.  She was a Grey Warden, she would be safest from the Chantry with other Wardens.  Varric and Sorcha would head south, back to Ferelden. 

Queen Anora had made it clear that the refuges were welcome home at any time and Sorcha figured they could blend in with the returning natives.  Fergus seemed pleased with this idea.  Sorcha wondered at times if the mabari had missed having other mabari around.

Saying goodbye to Bethany the next morning was hard but Varric had a good lead on transport that they had to take.  The two fugitives and the hound spent three weeks running along the coast, dodging Templar pursuit and scads of bandits and other hooligans along the coastal areas while they made their way to Ostwick.  While the Teyrn there might not be exactly sympathetic, Ostwick had a decent number of Fereldens, and Varric knew someone with a boat who might take them across the sea.

Unfortunately upon arriving in Ostwick their luck had run out.  The city swarmed with Templars.  Sorcha and Varric had narrowly escaped capture a few days after making Ostwick.  The outskirts of the city seemed rife with opportunity though.  Varric and Sorcha, with what coin she had remaining, were able to hire on some aid.  However no sooner did they have a way out the Templars had locked down all shipping vessels, so the two had to make a run farther up the coast. 

Mages were rebelling left and right.  Templars were everywhere, and then they started defecting too.  The Champion of Kirkwall was hard to hide - much to Sorcha’s chagrin - and they started gaining followers.  She wanted nothing more than to disappear, but Varric figured the best way to hide at this point was in plain sight.  Sorcha tried her best to hide the lack of appetite and constant fatigue the road and her condition was keeping her in, but Varric was no fool.  Instead of gunning for the coast he suggested maybe they make their way further in land.  Over the ensuing weeks they slowly made their way to Ansburg. 

Sorcha remembered very little of the ambush.  Just that Varric was rushing her out the back of the tavern and towards the river.  “It’s a Seeker, just GO Hawke!”  Then he was gone.  And so was she, running through woods towards their predetermined escape.  But they caught up with her.

A clang of steel on steel, Fergus’ growl and grunts of pain from Sorcha as a quick blade found its mark in her side.  Then a bright flash of light and her world shut off.

\---

The first thing she thought when she woke was that she was rather warm and cozy for being dead.

Slowly she opened her eyes.  She wasn’t on a boat.  She was in a small room.  The bed she lay in was comfortable, if a bit sparse.  The light that came through the window was whitewashed and the warm pile of fur sitting next to her side could only be Fergus.  She patted the mabari who whined softly and licked her fingers.

Then she heard the shift of leather and froze.

Apparently they weren’t alone.

Sitting up, she noticed the figure in the shadowed corner of the room.  Tall, arms crossed.  Male. 

Then he spoke, “I see you’re finally awake.”

 _Oh balls_ , she thought, and then she laughed at the irony.  Her voice was rough but she was feeling rather exposed, so she let her mouth just run.  “Figures you’d wear his face.”

Sea green eyes blinked at her but he didn’t move from the shadows.  “Pardon?”

“Oh you know, here to tell me for all eternity how I screwed the mabari on this one?”

“Sorcha-“ his tone was reproachful but that rich roll of his tongue on her name made her cheeks flush and she interrupted him again.

“I know, I know,” she waved her bandaged hand in dismissal.  “I’m only here long enough for the holy ‘I told you so’ and then you’ll turn my soul loose to the Void, is that right?”

She watched his shoulders sink slightly as he sighed.  Half drowned and beaten to a pulp but her mouth hadn’t suffered in the slightest.  “You’re not dead Hawke,” he said.

She looked down and swallowed.  She couldn’t look him in the eye right now.  “Wishful thinking then,” she said softly.  “Way to dash a girl’s hopes and dreams, Sebastian.  Again,” she muttered the last, and if he heard it, he chose to ignore the barb for what it was.  Their past was never a smooth one, but since that night, the chasm between them seemed only widened.

She heard the chain of his shirt clink softly as he shifted his weight.  Finally he spoke and there was anger in his voice, even though he tried keeping the tone flat.  “Where is he, Sorcha?”

The blood drained from her face.  _He_ was the last person on Thedas she wanted to talk about.  She turned to face him and her eyes held his.  She knew she couldn’t hide the pain she felt, but she didn’t expect to see anger and hurt in his eyes.  Sebastian could be expressive to a fault, but she didn’t look away as she said, “Still Void bent on your revenge then?  The Divine seems to be doing a smashing job already.  I think you can take the vengeance mantle off your shoulders for this one, Your Highness.  She’s got it covered.”

He bristled in anger and lifted himself off the wall, stepping into the light.  Anger glinted in his eyes as he said, “A good woman died by his hands!  How can you make fun of this?”

“Don’t you think I know that?”  She snapped.  She could feel the tears well up at the corner of her eyes but she would not start crying in front of him.  His words conjured up the destruction one man, one mage wrought and the screams of those inside haunted her nights still. 

His hands dropped to his sides.  “Why Sorcha?” he asked softly.  “Why spare the murderer of innocents when nothing has stayed your blade before?”

She couldn’t hold his gaze now.  Guilt washed over her.  Shame that she hadn’t had the courage to do what she should have done.  A tear rolled down her cheek, but she deflected the question.  “You wouldn’t understand Sebastian.  I… I couldn’t.”

She heard him step forward again and then stop.  “You’re still in love with him, aren’t you?”  He said it through clenched teeth.  _I was,_ she thought.  _But I don’t ever think he could have been with me.  Like you…_

“Or is it something else?”  There was something in the way he said it, and she knew.  Her gut clenched and she gripped the blanket closer to her chest.  A reflex she hadn’t known she was capable of.

His eyes and voice were level.  “So it’s his then.”

She stared ahead, lost in the memory, struggling to stay in the present and not get caught up in the past.  Finally she looked at him, “I couldn’t kill him Sebastian.  I’ve made my bed.  Now I have to sleep in it.”  _As empty as it is._   Her vision blurred only slightly since she refused to wipe her eyes.  The tension she was under made her hands ache and she raked one through her tangled hair. 

“Look, Sebastian.”  She sighed.  Her voice was stronger and she cleared her throat, “I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can find some pants…”  She made to pull the blanket back, looking around the room.

He crossed the room to within arm’s reach of her and shook his head.  “No, you’re not going anywhere.”

She froze.  “Am I a prisoner then?”

His voice hardened.  “You’re a fugitive and the Seekers will have questions.  Don’t think you’re going anywhere but into their custody.”

She raised a brow at his retreating back as he made his way for the door, but she couldn’t let him have the last word.  She had to know.  “Will you tell them then?”

She saw his hand grip the door tightly.  He knew she meant about the child. 

He slipped out the door without another word.

She lowered her head, chin to her chest and hands on her belly.  She had to get out of here.


	3. Distractions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you again la_libertine for being the awesome beta and idea bouncer that you are. Beta's are the best thing on the planet. *sage nod*
> 
> This chapter and the next are a bit short but I'm pretty sure that things will get more involved now. This story has almost been like surfing TvTropes for me: I think of one thing and it leads to 8 or 9 more things.
> 
> Enjoy!

The snap of twigs was all the warning he got. Noël stared daggers at Sebastian and he shrugged at her, but silently he was fuming to himself.

That was the second time he had let his mind wander and his tracking was suffering for it. Noël scolded him with a look and then sped her way up ahead. Most likely to get some distance between them, since it was clear Sebastian was going to be more of a liability.

He shook her silent rebuke off and resumed the hunt. Twilight gave them enough light to navigate through the woods but their quarry traveled at all hours. Whatever the messenger carried was important because, if Roan's sources were correct, he had been riding most of the week from Ansburg. Horses were rare outside Orlais, but Ansburg did a lot of trade with the Orlesians. Someone thought it important enough to get a message to Goran with haste.

Silently he moved through the trees; his bow out but not drawn. The weapon was like an extension of his arm and it would take no thought to nock an arrow, just the desire to will it there. The ash tree his Grandfather had crafted the weapon from still stood in the Courtyard at Vaelen Hold. He made sure he kept this bit of family history well-oiled and in prime condition.

Thoughts of the weapon lead to the one who recovered it for him, and he couldn't help but lapse back to four days earlier when he discovered Hawke, a heap of bloody armor on the river bank.

 _He was drenched in blood, muddy, damp, and tired from the run. Stripped her out of the soiled linens and armor. Her breasts were bound, and the binding was soaked red. His fingers were stained as dark as her hair with her blood. He'd never seen her like this. No. That was a lie. He'd seen her badly injured before, but the abomination had always been there to patch her up._

 _There was no apostate to save her now. The swell of her breasts over the binding was distracting, not because of what it was, but because it was different from what he remembered. His eyes wandered over the rest of her while he cleared her body of her clothing and armor for the healer, and he saw the round lump of her abdomen…_

Another twig snapped and it was all the warning he had before he felt cold steel on his cheek. Clucking softly with her teeth at him Noël slid into his view. He felt like such an ass. Her cold glare said it all. "Your head isn't here. It's a good thing I could have done this solo." She sheathed her blade and tossed him something slightly damp and leathery. The coppery smell was probably blood. So the messenger resisted. _And I missed it? Stupid, and dangerous._

The pouch held a scroll case as well as a small purse full of sovereigns. Interesting. He raised his brow and looked at the commander. "Gold and a message? Let's see what our friends in Ansburg are up to."

He ripped the seal on the scroll and in the fading light was able to make out the gist of the missive. Margrave Hilderban of Ansburg was requesting aid of Goran. Templar rebels had taken up position in Ansburg and Hilderban was sending gold and pleas for help. Sebastian resisted the urge to crumble the parchment in his gauntlet. Seven months prior, Ansburg had sworn to him they would send aid when he made his bid to take back the throne. Another ally lost. At this rate, he was going to be out of outside allies within the year. He shoved the missive back into the pouch and tied it tight. Noël had kept silent while he read but as he turned to go, she placed her hand on his shoulder, "Sebastian, wait."

Not many people here in Starkhaven called him by his given name. He paused and looked back at her. She let her hand fall to her side and then gave him that look of hers, the intense stare that made him feel like she was noting every detail to file away for use later. "What is eating at you?" she said. "Since we've been at the Resari place things have been tense, but you've barely said three words to Roan, Kirt or I these past few days. We're concerned. Is it that girl?"

By some small miracle, Noël did not know the exact identity of the Champion of Kirkwall, and at this point Sebastian wanted to keep it that way. Only Roan knew, and the practical Antivan's opinion on Sorcha was simple: _Send her to the Templars. It's your safest option_. Sebastian gripped his bow but he gave her an easy smile. "Partly, though I'm thinking we should make the move to the Hermin Hamlet soon. We've been at the Resari's estate for longer than I'm comfortable with."

She crossed her arms and leaned against the sapling next to her. The frown lines between her eyes told him she wasn't convinced. "Is moving on going to get your head out of your ass? Because if this is how you got things done before I call faulty advertisement."

He bristled at her, "Then you can bring one of your seconds with you next time. I'll make sure to keep my bumbling arse out of yer way." The corner of her mouth quirked at him and he opened his mouth to rip into her, knowing that she was doing it to just get a rise out of him, when the sound of footfalls stopped him dead in his tracks.

The arrow was nocked and aimed just as Roan melted from the shadows in front of the two. Sebastian sighed, but hid a small smile of vindication. Noël hadn't moved and had actually looked surprised to see Roan. She stood from the tree and nodded to the large man.

Roan's dark eyes were only for Sebastian as his brow furrowed in concern and aggravation. "You should head back to the estate, Highness. There's been an incident with your guest."

His stomach sank and the look the Antivan was giving him did not bode well. Heading at a fast pace back towards the Resari estate, he let Roan talk while they ran. "What happened?"

Noël kept pace with Sebastian and Roan, though she darted ahead to take point. Roan pitched his voice to carry to only Sebastian's ears as he said, "It seems the serrah objected to being confined to quarters. She's with the healer now, but three of my men are recovering from broken bones, cuts and scrapes." Roan eyed the archer with a bit of reproach, "You certainly downplayed her stubborn streak, Messere. She's a demon when cornered, even unarmed and injured."

Cursing silently, Sebastian frowned at Roan and nodded. "Well, I warned you she'd be a handful, I just didn't think she'd be this stubborn." _Maker's mercy, I'm going to throttle that woman._

Roan glanced at him and Sebastian didn't need to hear the words on the Antivan's mind, but he said it anyway. "I can send word to the Chantry. The Templars could take her to their post in Seilamwood."

Sebastian shook his head, "No Roan. I won't send to the Chantry unless she proves uncooperative. She's the only one who can tell me where that damn apostate is. I will not rest until I see him dead!" He said the last with such conviction that Roan backed down. There was little else the Antivan could say that would sway the Prince in this matter.


	4. Caged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks again la_libertine for being the awesomesauce beta you are. I've been sitting on this chapter too long, otherwise I'll keep nitpicking it. Hope it's enjoyable.

The spring rains did nothing to alleviate her foul mood. Fergus was in the small courtyard below, barking at the rain. Just this morning, she had been finally allowed to get her hands on her armor. It was a mess. A rag in one hand, she wiped dried blood and dirt from the links and plates, needing something to occupy her. She had been bedridden since showing up two weeks earlier. Her mabari was being treated like her weapons. More's the pity. She missed the company.

Her botched escape attempt and the fury she had seen in Sebastian's eyes did nothing to quell the feeling that she should not stay here. Every time he came to see her it was always to ask about Anders. She refused to tell him what she knew. It was pure thick headed stubbornness on her part; she knew _nothing_. She had no idea where the mage was. But she wasn't about to tell Sebastian that.

She had looked for another opportunity to escape, but Sebastian was a wily one, more so than he had ever hinted at. She was unable to find an opening to escape.

Her fingers were restless, tapping absently on the Hawke herald on her breastplate. She couldn't stop thinking about the last thing Sebastian had said to her. He was going to send for the Seekers. She felt caged, with no way out; it was a foreign feeling for the Champion of Kirkwall. Like being in the Circle, only without the benefits of magic. Or was that the curse of magic? Thinking of mages made her think of her sister and how Bethany was still out there somewhere.

She frowned absently. Maybe they could hunt _him_ down for her. He was, after all, on the run from the Chantry and the Wardens and every other bloody authority on the planet. She placed a hand on her belly, knowing above all else she could not let the Templars get their hands on this child.

As if thinking about it woke it up, her belly cramped. Sometimes she thought she felt flutters, but she wasn't sure. Thoughts of the baby in her womb made her chest ache. Was she truly ready to be a mother? Alone? With no help? How was she going to take care of an infant while on the run? _Mother, I wish you were here. I could really use one of your insufferable lectures right about now._

These thoughts plagued her nightly. She would wake in a cold sweat, her limbs tangled in the sheets, her cuts stinging as they healed, her abdomen aching with the child inside. One dream seemed to stick with her. It was a nightmare she had been having since she had run from Kirkwall.

 _Gentle, loving hands caress her face and sides as labor pains take her. She is naked, exposed and shivering, but she is home, in the bed they made love in. The bed they made this child in. Her back arches, and she can see Anders, blond hair held back tight, amber eyes looking concerned but full of love. Her heart aches seeing him like this, but then there's another contraction and he's there, helping her, easing her body along its natural rhythms to bring their child into this world._

 _An intense wave of pain washes over her, forcing her eyes closed and Anders' warm presence is gone. She opens her eyes and in his place is a stark, sunken, bald husk of a man. Glowing blue eyes stare at her as he plunges hands into her womb and rips the child from her body. The pain is excruciating. There is blood everywhere and he turns his back to her as blood and birth fluids pour out of her. She can feel her life dripping away a drop at a time. He's leaving her behind. He's taking the child and she can't even muster a broken sob of defiance…_

Goosebumps sprang up on her arms. Even with the layer of consciousness to lessen the blow of the film of dream she can't shake that last bit of phantom pain. Lost in thought, she barely heard the scratch at the door. She cleared her throat when the door opened and a blond woman with a tray came in. She did not nod her head, but something tugged at Sorcha's mind. She felt as if she should know the woman's face, but could not place it.

The stranger placed the tray by the fireplace and turned to get a full look at Sorcha. She placed her hand on her hip and studied her.

Sorcha sighed at the scrutiny and studied the woman in return. She was slight but had that wiry look of someone dangerous. The way she canted her hips and planted her feet, Sorcha figured the woman was armed to the teeth with hidden weapons. Sebastian kept interesting company. Finally she looked at the woman's face where icy blue eyes seem to have finished their own inspection. "What?"

"I'm trying to figure out how you bested five heavily armed men in such a sorry state," the woman replied.

Sorcha shrugged and her bruises and cuts decided at that moment to remind her of the folly of that encounter. "They didn't really give me much choice. But here I am, subdued and awaiting the executioner's noose."

The woman raised a brow at that and then shrugged. "That might be some time in coming. I hope you're ready to move because we're leaving tomorrow." She had a neutral tone of voice, almost like she was making it bland on purpose. Sorcha found it odd.

Then it was Sorcha's turn to raise her brow. "Are we in danger here? I thought this was his base of operations, the 'Taking Back Starkhaven' Headquarters, as it were."

The mystery woman shrugged again. "Prince Vael feels it's time to move on. The city is still having outbursts of apostate attacks, though they've dropped in frequency. Templars are fighting amongst each other and just a few blocks south of here there was a clash between the two factions. There's too much attention being called to this corner of the city. We should leave before they catch on that the exiled prince is in residence."

Softly Sorcha said, "Is it really that bad out there? Are all the Circles rebelling?"

At that, the woman laughed. It was a husky sound, guttural. "There is no _Circle_ in Starkhaven. Not since it broke and the annulment was done six years ago. Whatever apostates the Templars have come across have been systematically wiped out. Common folk aren't taking it very well. The helpful magics as well as the harmful are being targeted. Healers are practically extinct in the city and surrounding farmsteads." She looked at Sorcha and a pang of sympathy seemed to cross her face. It surprised the warrior. "Otherwise we would have moved earlier. A healer could have at least patched you up enough for the trip."

Sorcha pondered this. If the situation was that bad here in Starkhaven, weeks travel from Kirkwall… Best not dwell too long.

"How goes Sebastian's bid for the throne then?"

"What I do to regain Starkhaven isn't really your concern." Both women jumped in their spots as Sebastian walked through the slightly open door. His face was screwed up in a scowl. Since she had woken up in Starkhaven she had yet see the man smile. She missed it. It bothered her that she missed it.

He didn't look at Sorcha, but instead at the mystery woman. "Noël, may I have a word with you outside please?"

A calm mask descended over Noël's face and she nodded once to Sorcha before leaving the room. Sorcha's face colored in anger since Sebastian didn't even give her a backwards glance as he followed the blond woman out of the room. She was about to yell at him for the rude dismissal when he slammed the door shut and locked it. The dark figure that moved from behind the shadow of the door into her view scared her speechless.

Her heart raced as the slender figure snaked its way across the open space between her seat at the window and the door. Anger flashed to alarm as she cried out "Sebastian!" Then the assassin was upon her. She sprang from her chair, her breastplate still in her hand so she used it as a shield.

A dagger with a frightening oily sheen came into her view moments before it was thrust at her side. She slammed the armor down on to it and the offending hand. A deep grunt came from under the mask covering her assailant's face and beady hazel eyes glared at her. The dark bushy brows, the low pitched grunt screamed male to her despite the wiry frame. Elf, maybe. Warrior instincts shrieked for a sword but her captors had confiscated all the weapons she had had.

She shouted in the assassin's face as she dodged under another blow and this time she lost her grip on the armor. Stumbling backwards towards the window, she couldn't do much else but dodge her assailant and throw whatever she had in reach at him to keep him off balance. Pieces of her armor, cleaning rags, the small stepping stool, anything to put space between them.

The door thudded and she could hear cries of alarm but they couldn't help her. The man was determined to stick that poisoned dagger in her person and she could not allow it.

Underused muscles protested as she leapt for the bed and tried to use it as a barrier between them. But she overestimated the distance and when she landed against the side board her knees cracked into the frame and her right leg gave out under her.

She cried out as the assassin grabbed her by the back of the head and made to slice the dagger across her throat. She clung to his wrist and through sheer force of will, shouting insults about his dubious parentage and other such invectives at her assailant, struggled to hold the dagger away from her throat. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a dark symbol on the man's vest: a black sunburst with a grey eye. Her heart sank as she recognized the herald of the Seekers.

Then her attacker changed tactics and she felt more than saw it when he went to wrap his arm around her neck. It was the logical move to break their stalemate and so she was prepared for it. As soon as he shifted his weight she shoved with her good leg against the frame of the bed and slammed them both against the opposite wall.

His grip of the dagger never faltered, but she was able to wriggle loose from his grapple and she rolled away. At least, she tried to roll. Stiches popped and her not quite healed wounds burned as they split open. She couldn't stop the sob of pain as she crawled as fast as she could to the door, which was queerly silent.

For a split second the thought crossed her mind that Sebastian wasn't going to get to her in time, that maybe the assassin was here to take care of this mess on his orders. She didn't want to think he'd stoop this low. Blood pounded in her ears she shoved her back against the opposite wall in time to see her assailant regain his balance and stalk his way across the room to her.

The door next to her sprang open and three arrows zipped through, one after another, thunking into the man's chest and shoulder.

The assassin staggered backwards and hit the window sill. With a wet sucking sound another arrow shaft sprang from his mouth and he slumped to the floor.

Adrenaline sharpened everything but she didn't really see the concerned blue eyes until she felt Sebastian grab the side of her face. Sounds were coming from his mouth but they echoed dully in her ears. Vaguely, she knew that he was calling out her name. She couldn't respond, because everything hurt and something felt _wrong_. With shaking fingers she brought her arm up between them. There was a shallow slice from wrist to elbow.

She had not escaped the dagger's touch. Looking Sebastian in the eyes, she could only groan out, "Poison" before everything started to spin. For the second time in as many weeks, her world went dark.


	5. Disquiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mega super ultra thanks to la_libertine for being the amazing beta she is.   
> This chapter took a bit to iron out, but it's next chapter that is going to kick my butt.  
> Hope you enjoy it.  
> PS: As if it weren't obvious since this is fanfiction, Bioware owns Dragon Age and all it's characters. I claim nothing.  
> Since this is a Sebastian centric fiction, most of this is just pure unadulterated speculation and if Hepler is to be believed, will be invalidated when the Starkhaven DLC hits.

A mug was shoved into his face, tendrils of cinnamon scented steam curling up along its sides.  “Drink this before you fall face first onto the floor, Your Highness.”

He didn’t have the energy to argue, so he took the mug from Roan and swallowed, not caring that the bitter liquid burned on its way down.  He wasn’t paying all that much attention to taste.  He stared blankly at the rough wooden floorboards as he nursed the drink.  Fergus, laying down in front of the door to the sickroom, huffed out a short whine and laid his head on his paws.  Sebastian sympathized with the mabari.

With arms propped up on his knees and head hanging, he looked up at Roan from under a stray bit of hair and brushed it back with annoyance.  They had been on their feet for most of the day so it was a welcome rest they took now.  Patience wasn’t his strongest virtue and the inactivity made his hands itch for something to do.  “Should we make another move so soon or do you think the hamlet we’ve set up camp will suffice for the next week?”

The Antivan considered his words.  Sebastian appreciated the man for his attention to details, and the strategy of moving the men was one of those things he depended on most.  Roan nodded and said, “We’re safe for the time being.  It’s a good four hour hike to Hermin’s from the city proper, an hour if we’re ahorse.  Plenty of warning if we need to move.”  He sat back against the rickety wooden chair and rubbed at the back of his neck, gathering his thoughts.  “Goodman Hershal’s land is the border of Blackwood and the marsh makes an excellent fall back point.  Mounted pursuit would have a rougher time in the marsh than those on foot, and we each squad knows the rendezvous in case of emergencies.”

Sebastian wiped a hand over his face and thought about the messages he had received and read while out at the hamlet that morning.  “I sent Noël on an errand regarding the missive from Serah Cross, so she won’t be joining us.”  The missive from Walter Cross, an old friend of his father, spoke of Templars making inquiries about missing lyrium shipments and the Chantry trying to keep a lid on it.  It seemed no one had any answers and the situation degenerated further within the Chantry.  He shook his head and sat up, rubbing calloused hands on his legs.  “We’re going into town.  It’s about time I got some questions answered.”

Roan crossed muscled forearms, causing his leather armor to creak under the strain, and stated bluntly, “Questions like who would send a Seeker assassin after someone who isn’t even supposed to be in Starkhaven, and how did they know where to find her?”  
The Prince of Starkhaven nodded, “There’s a man in Sunderport I need to speak with.”

A thin black brow on the tanned Antivan’s face quirked at the prince and he shuffled his feet on the floor boards, causing Fergus to lift his head at the noise.  “Shrike?”

A laugh escaped Sebastian’s twisted grimace.  “Who else would know?”

In the seedy underside of Starkhaven politics, if there was one person who knew anything about anyone it would be Shrike.  The man was a legend, though his origins were wildly speculated at.  Some claim he was a sixth son of the Shrewsbury’s who had carved his own path away from the brood.  Others claimed he was minor lord from the Orlesian courts who’d had better luck in Starkhaven than back home in Orlais.  Not many had met the man in person, as he usually worked through his web of information brokers.  One of those brokers was who Sebastian was going to meet tonight. 

His options on getting information about an assassin were limited.  He couldn’t accuse the Chantry of sending the elf: bad enough the Sisters and Mother were cold and formal to him, but if he went in there waving the man’s herald and demanding answers he’d never get them to see him as on their side.  No, while speed was of the essence, he had to keep the balance in his favor.  Getting himself in the Chantry’s bad grace would make taking back his throne harder by tenfold.

He clenched his hands, feeling the knuckles crack as his blood started to boil.  Thoughts of the assassin caused his vision to tinge red.   The elf had had the Seeker’s symbol but nothing else on his person to show his allegiance.  Sebastian had been too busy running with a bleeding and dazed Sorcha in his arms to the healer’s home in Drifter’s Town.  It was miracle he hadn’t slipped once the whole trip; the persistent rain that day had slicked the roads between the Resari estate in Western Starkhaven and Genna’s in Drifter’s Town in the south.  Roan and Noël had taken care of searching the body of the dead elf.  The poison coated dagger had helped them somewhat.  Roan had recognized the poison and had an antidote they could use to stop the poison from killing her.

The salve had saved her life, but it had been four days and with the movement of his men and searching for answers, Sebastian had had no word from the midwife.   Genna was skilled in her trade, having been there for his brothers and his own birthings decades before.    
His vision blurred and looking down at his fingers he saw them as they were that night; covered in Hawke’s blood.  There had been so much of it…  He knew her prior injuries were severe, but not enough to warrant his armor needing a thorough cleaning.  It worried Sebastian more than he realized.  The specter of her life on his hands faded and his thoughts turned towards the child.

He didn’t like to think about the baby she carried.  Shame colored his ears as his thoughts wandered to that day in Kirkwall.  Their final argument, his adamant affirmation that he had oaths to uphold.  Her fiery protests over the canticle that he had oaths of blood to the people of Starkhaven and that he should stop hiding behind the Maker’s will. 

They both said things to hurt, words that cut to the quick of the matter, both of them frustrated with emotions both were too stubborn to reveal or give up on.  She had turned to the apostate for the comfort Sebastian was unable (but not, Maker forgive him, unwilling) to give her.  He had resigned himself to his fate as a brother of the faith.  He had made his vows to Andraste and he would abide by them. 

Then his world was blown asunder.  And he would not forgive the man, no, the monster for killing Elthina and all those innocents.  

The knowledge that Sorcha loved the apostate confused Sebastian.  But she carried his child.  Anders’ child.   

Roan cleared his throat to get Sebastian’s attention.  He looked up at his friend in relief.  He wasn’t ready to explore his feelings on the topic.  He couldn’t afford the time.

“Any word yet on …” the larger man let his question trail off as the door down the hall opened and Genna stepped out.  Fergus stood and she let the mabari into the room, but she closed the door behind him and made her way to the waiting men.

They both stood as Genna stopped a few feet from Sebastian.  She was short, her cheeks rounded and her carriage sturdy, the picture of motherly comfort.  Her soft blue eyes looked at Sebastian with compassion and a touch of regret.  “The girl sleeps.  Her cuts and scrapes will heal, though the broken stitches mean she’ll probably scar.  Those stopped bleeding days ago.  The poison has run its course.”    
She nodded her thanks to Roan and the Antivan returned the gesture.  “It is a common enough plant in these parts,” he said.  Looking at Sebastian he added, “It was a sloppy move on his part.  Speaks that they were in a rush, otherwise they’d have used something not native to the region.”

Sebastian shook his head at Roan.  “I don’t believe he expected her to be in such well-equipped company.”  Sebastian hadn’t looked away from Genna while he spoke to Roan so he noticed the elderly woman’s hesitation.  “Please Genna, what aren’t you telling me?”  
The wrinkles around her eyes sagged as she sighed and rubbed her hands on her apron.  Softly she said, “She will survive the poison.  The child did not.”

Sebastian’s mouth went dry and a prayer came unbidden to his lips, “Andraste, please guide this innocent soul to the Maker’s arms.”  He touched his fingers to his forehead and took a moment to collect himself.  He caught Roan’s startled look out of the corner of his eye.  Sebastian shook his head.  He had kept the healer sworn to secrecy about the baby.  Roan only knew Genna as an old friend of the Vael family but Sebastian had neglected to tell his second what kind of friend.

The midwife continued with a compassionate tone, “She needs rest now.  She can use the time to heal, body and soul.  She can stay here and if you’d like to leave someone here they can stay in the spare room down by the kitchen.  But she’s in no condition to travel anywhere Sebastian, for at least a few days.”  The thought occurred to Sebastian that had they been back in Kirkwall, Anders would have had Sorcha back up in no time.  There was a lesson here that he wasn’t ready to accept: mages had their place as their healing arts were a blessing.  If only they weren’t so quick to harm with their arts…

Wordlessly Sebastian nodded and placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder, giving her a gentle squeeze.  “Thank you, Genna.  I will leave some men here for your protection.  I don’t think you are in any danger, but better safe than sorry.”

The woman smiled and shed twenty years in the process.  “Thank you Sebastian.  I appreciate your concern.”  She patted his hand and he lowered it back to his side.  Hearing footfalls Sebastian and Roan turned to see one of his men coming up from the front of the house.  The man nodded curtly to the prince.  “Beggin’ yer pardon Messere, but Commander Rosenfir is here.”

“Thank you.  I want you and Brian to stay here and guard Genna and her guest.  Noël should be here within the hour to relieve you.”  He dismissed the man and gestured for Roan to follow him to the front exit of Genna’s home.  He picked up his bow, set the mug down on one of the tables and made his way to the front door.

The air outside was cool and only slightly damp with river fog.  A man paced back and forth but once he caught sight of Sebastian he stopped and grinned wide.  A perfect set of teeth in a thin lipped mouth, the man’s strawberry blond hair was pulled back and held secure with a bit of leather, and his light armor looked cleaner than Sebastian had ever seen.  Kirt Rosenfir, complete with family crest daggers sheathed at his side, the handles twinkling.  He looked to impress tonight, it seemed.

Bright green eyes greeted the Prince as Kirt knocked his friend’s shoulder and his Starkhaven burr wasn’t quite as pronounced as Sebastian’s own, but it was there.  “So, I hear someone’s out for your neck, this soon in the game.  I’m surprised it took them so long to send someone your way.  What’s the game plan, Ian?  Storm the Chantry proper and get some answers?”

Sebastian rolled his eyes at Kirt as he used his boyhood nickname.  The man talked a mile a minute and only slowed down when good and drunk.  But Sebastian wanted him at his best.  Kirt had the Maker’s luck at getting what he needed when he needed it; right now, he could use a minor miracle.  “No, we’re not going to go accuse the Reverend Mother of assassination.  We need information.  Did you get in touch with your man in Sunderport?  Or do we hunt for it the old fashioned way?”

His friend brushed off the accusation with a gesture.  “Please.  You whisper such sweet nothings to me.  Come on, Rose awaits us at the Wasted Cockerel.  We can have a chat and if we’re lucky, some coin and fine tail to end the night.”  Kirt winked at Sebastian, but the archer was not in the mood.  Kirt still liked to toss barbs at him over his chastity vows.  Back then, they had made it a game.  While circumstances had changed for Sebastian, Kirt remained ignorant of the meaning of the word ‘celibate.’

The three men made their way to through the dark quiet streets, passing the night life in the poor section of Starkhaven known as Drifter’s Town.  It saddened Sebastian to see Genna have to make do in such squalor, but he had been gone for many years.  Things changed.  People did what they had to do to survive.  

It took them an hour or so to navigate the winding paths and alleys from the slums to the edges of Sunderport.  The streets were wide enough for a single horse drawn cart or buggy and the sight of horseflesh was much more common now than when he was younger.  In his hedonistic youth Sebastian had become intimately familiar with the seedier side of the city of his birth.  Losing his escort on foot was a game he and Kirt had played to the disgruntlement of the guard and its Capitan, Leland Rowls.  But Leland was a ghost of the past now.  He had died along with the rest of Sebastian’s family seven years ago. 

Time moves forward and in the present, while there was more squalor and horse shit than he remembered, the vices were still the same.  This late in the evening beggars and pickpockets gave way to whores and street merchants of the illicit persuasion.  The three men took care to avoid being seen.  Sebastian wanted to keep his return to Starkhaven proper as secretive as possible.

It was a big risk going to the Wasted Cockerel; it had been an old haunt of his.  But retaking his birthright was worth it.  Looking at the outside of the tavern, Sebastian couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at his mouth as he noted the smoke stains on the side of the building which had never been scrubbed or washed away.  It had been an accident, but Barkeep Joran had run the two of them out so fast… Sebastian had barely had time to get dressed.

Kirt went in first, brushing open the swinging doors into the sea of sailors and dock workers enjoying a pint for the evening.  The stench of unwashed bodies, stale ale and urine hit Sebastian square in the face and had him reeling back on his heels.  The noise was familiar though.   Loud barks of laughter followed by the clink of coin as bets on games of Wicked Grace were made, wenches collected their tips and drunks snored in the corners.

Sebastian made sure to keep his profile covered.  Joran could still have run of the place so best not to tempt fate.  Kirt lead them towards the back of the tavern, which was similar to the front, except that it opened up out onto the docks instead of the street.  It wasn’t a pleasant place to have a seat, since it served as a good place for those who couldn’t hold their drink puking over the side of the rail into the river below.    
At one of the benches against the far wall a shadowed figure sat with a tankard in her hand.  Dark eyes glinted in the torch light, staring at Kirt, eyeing him up and down like a fine piece of meat.

Rolling his eyes heavenward, Andraste please let this not turn into a complete disaster, Sebastian approached with Kirt and Roan in tow.  The woman was covered from head to foot in ornate dark leather.  The covering was just a distraction as it was form fitted to her curvaceous form.  It didn’t leave much to the imagination either.  Her hair was unbound and wild with curls, tangled around her head and framing a pretty face with striking dark brown eyes.  On the corner of her left cheek there was a small tattoo of a rose, and her full lips pouted then turned up into a smirk.  “You know Kirt, when you said you were bringing friends, I didn’t think they’d be so… delicious.” 

She gave Roan a quick once over, who pointedly ignored her and watched the rest of the tavern for signs of trouble, then she slid her gaze over to Sebastian.  It made his skin crawl at first and the flush of heat told him his cheeks were coloring.  It had been a very long time since anyone had been so… blatant in their attention to him.  “Did you remember my birthingday?”  She practically purred, her voice a low alto.  Before Sebastian could make some sort of biting retort to her remark Kirt laughed and put a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. 

“Now now Rose, we’re just here to talk.  No games.  Not for these boyo’s at least.”

She snorted in laughter at the scoundrel and indicated with a slender finger seats for the men to take.  “A girl can dream, can’t she?  Now, what was it that was so serious that I had to come right away?  You’re lucky I like you…”

His friend raised a brow at Rose and he smiled.  Sebastian knew that smile.  His friend had plans for this vixen that strained his Maker-made vows.  Sebastian wondered privately just how long these two had been at this game.   

 The prince cleared his throat and her sultry gaze slid from his friend to him.  Her heated gaze didn’t stop Sebastian from getting down to business.  “We need information.  Kirt says you’re Shrike’s ear and I’m requesting his assistance.”

She brushed her hand over her ample chest and produced a small pointed file.  She leaned back as she used the file to pick out bits of dirt underneath her fingernails.  The stunt had made the three men tense, but she pretended to not notice.  Though she did smirk as she shrugged.  “Yes, I hear you’re looking for an assassin, is that right?  There are so many crawling through the docks these days, what with the powers that be jockeying for crumbling positions, it’s hard to keep track.”  She lifted her eyes to his, dark lashes hooding her gaze.  This woman knew much more than she let on.

He frowned.  He knew the information he needed would come with a price.  The fact that she hadn’t mentioned any was a bad sign.  He did his best to keep her on the topic of the assassin.  “I have means for payment, in case you’re curious.  I need to know who hired him.”

“Mmmhmm.”  She put her file back from whence it came and focused all of her attention squarely on him.  He had caught on to her game.  It made him relax.  She was trying to crawl her way under his skin.  Like an old glove, the rules of engagement came back to him. 

She noticed the relaxation in his shoulders and threw her head back, laughing.  Knowing her ruse wasn’t going to work she dampened down the smolder and cocked her head to the side.  “Very well, princeling.”  He froze and cursed silently at the physical reaction.  She noticed and her lips quirked.

“Come now, I know a Vael when I see one.  You have your father’s nose.”  She said the last absently and then added firmly “I’ll speak to Shrike.  Tell me of the assassin.”

He glanced at Kirt who just gave an airy shrug and Sebastian sighed.  “He was an elf.  Dark haired, trim build.  He wore a Seeker’s crest and carried a foreign dagger on him.  I’m not familiar with the make but it looks like nothing from south of the Marches.”  He placed the weapon on the table, and Rose picked it up and gave it a once over. 

“Hmm” she said, “looks Rivain.”  Placing the dagger back she tapped a finger on the table.  “No one comes immediately to mind, but I’m sure we’ll have no trouble tracking down the dead man’s employer.  He is dead, right?” 

“Of course.”

“Pity.  Might have had something useful to impart,” she waved her hand in dismissal.  “Now, best you make your way out the back princeling, before Joran recognizes you and that telltale ornament of yours.”  Her eyes dipped to his belt buckle and raising her brow, she smirked.  Sebastian had the feeling she was more interested with what lay underneath and it irked him.  She looked back up and winked at him.  “We’ll be in touch.”

Sebastian’s chest tightened at the thought of the kind of price her master would demand for this information.  But he needed to know, fast, who was so well informed of his whereabouts.  Roan and Kirt stood with him and as he was leaving, Rose reached a hand out and placed it on his gauntlet.  “One last thing:  Time is running out for you and yours.  Stories floating out here from Kirkwall are starting to contain more details about the famous Champion and her compatriots.  Those with the right sources will know you’re coming.  If you were counting on surprise, it may be too late.  But,” and she hesitated, for effect or for her own sake he couldn’t tell looking into her dark gaze.  “When the time comes, make sure you’ve got the right allies on your side.  You wouldn’t want to end up like the rest of your family.”

Before he had a chance to respond to that cryptic message, she stood and made her way through the tavern to the front, calling out to Joran and giving them a distraction to get out the back.

It was a small advantage given freely he would take. 

The back door of the Wasted Cockerel spilled out to the pier connected to the tavern.  There were various small boats and skiffs docked here, their captains and crew prowling the night inside this tavern or the next. 

While the three men caught their bearings a woman of dubious virtue called out, “Kirt!  You looking for some sauce tonight?  Fresca and I aren’t busy and we’d love to see that thing you do with your feet.”  Sebastian just looked at his friend while Kirt laughed and hollered back, “Some other night ladies.  Business before pleasure.”

He shook his head at his friend.  “That thing with your feet?  Maker, have you not changed at all?”  There was a time when a night on the town was what Vael and Rosenfir did best.  The ale flowed, the women fawned, and coin was of no consequence, gambled away or spent for a good night’s romp.  His time away from Starkhaven and with the Chantry made it all a dull memory; but here, back in the thick of things, the rot of fish and river fauna clinging to the air, the laughter and shouts of folks having a good time, it all came rushing back.

I am a changed man, Maker willing.  He couldn’t afford to dwell so much on the past.  Having it stare him in the face made it difficult.  Kirt tugged on his arm and tossed his head towards the city streets.  “We should get moving before I change my mind, eh?  Ceilia is actually quite popular…”  He leered at the cute blonde giving them doe eyes and Sebastian grunted his agreement.

The three men left the pier and poured out onto the dockside street.  The din of drunken sailors leaving the bars and heading back to ships with shipmates caroling was thick in the air.  The alley way they used to avoid notice on the open roads was dimly lit and stocked with crates ready to be loaded from the neighboring warehouse in the early morning hours. 

Roan was on point, and the caterwauling filtering into the alley almost made Sebastian miss the soft snap of a bow string.  He grabbed Kirt’s arm and dragged the man down with him as he heard the arrow sail over his shoulder.  “Ambush!”

Another arrow whizzed overhead as Sebastian dove for cover behind a stack of wooden crates.  He heard the hiss of daggers being drawn and knew Kirt prepared to enter the fray at the end of the alley.  Grunts and scuffled footsteps indicated to Sebastian that Roan must have met with some of the resistance.

Why these bandits would be stupid enough to engage the three of them in battle was anyone’s guess.  All three men were well armed.  Someone had to be targeting them specifically.  Sebastian had no time to worry about if they had missed a tail and were being followed.  He brought out his bow, nocked an arrow and was ready to let it fly.  He poked his head around the stack of crates to see four men, two archers and two brawlers with clubs, at the entrance of the alley.

With fluid grace he drew back the arrow and released it, watching it sail straight into his target’s gut.  The man let out a sharp cry of pain and dropped his bow to grip his middle, only to get another arrow in his arm for his trouble. 

Ducking back behind the crate, he heard a fierce yell and Antivan curses bounce off the walls.  Kirt was nowhere to be seen.  He heard one of the bandits shout, “Now!”

He heard the snap of rope and looked up in time to see the crates he hide behind start to tumble on top of him.  He threw his arm up in time to shield his head from being pulverized by wooden crates full of Maker knows what.  In seconds he was surrounded and the sounds of battle were muffled as he was painfully buried in the rubble.  One of the crates struck him on the side of the head and the last sound he heard before the abyss swallowed him whole was the sharp snap of wood.


End file.
